Babe In Sam's Arms
by Apple Senorita
Summary: Sam has a one night stand, and a baby comes of it. How is Sam going to cope with a little one of his own, when he feels he can't even protect himself? Can the Winchesterduo cope with a baby? I apologise for not updating other fics instead but.............


**To be honest I don't know why I wrote this. It just sort of came out one day haha. It's a plot bunny from the forum, Shenandoah77's plot bunny to be precise. I know people who read my other stuff are probably thinking I should be updating them and I am, but a little later than I expected because of my computer breaking. Age-old excuse, but sadly true. **

**Anyway, Sam gets a baby. This is my twist on it. **

**Tell me what you think

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**Thursday 14****th**** May**

The baby won't stop crying. The baby won't sleep. The baby won't stop throwing up. The baby won't eat. Dean swears blind it is possessed and I'm having to keep it wrapped tightly in my arms in case he gets the idea into his head to dunk some Holy Water on it.

It. I shouldn't call it 'it'. He. A baby boy. _My_ baby boy.

"It'll have time to be splashed with Holy Water when it gets Christened," I grumbled over my shoulder, keeping my back to Dean like a shield against him and his water bottle. "_If_ it gets Christened," I say under my breath as I look back down at the little screaming boy in my arms.

"Fine, I'm not going to do it Sam," Dean sighed, "But I tell you, if he doesn't stop crying, I'm going to go and sleep in the bath tub. I can't do with another night of screaming and puking…and that baby,"

I tried to smile, because I knew he was doing this for my benefit. He was doing the smiles and the jokes and the bravado because I couldn't anymore. I'd given that up by now. I bent my head and kissed the boy's forehead, hoping to calm him down. But it didn't work. Nothing was working. I stood up and started walking around the arm, bouncing gently to try and lull him into quiet.

"Has he had all his jabs?" Dean asks, snapping the ring off a can of Coke.

"Uh, I think so. Why?" I have to raise my voice a little over the top of the baby's screams.

"Well maybe he's trying to tell you that he needs a jab or something,"

"Dean he's not a computer, he doesn't have virus protection updates!"

"It was just a suggestion!" he barks, before taking a long pull on his drink. I start to pace the room, watching the little boy screw up his fist, his eyes and his toes and scream. He kicks his legs, pummels the air with his little fists, and I seriously worry about how red he's turning.

"And Sam, we've got to stop calling him 'him'. And 'it'. The kid needs a name,"

"I know, I know," I sigh, "I just…I haven't had time to think about it,"

"How about…Daniel?"

I lean down and grab one of the bottles from the line of them we've got going. All those years filling little pots with salt and making up lines upon lines of silver bullets had made us pretty effective at bottle-making.

"No,"

"Why not?"

"I don't know…he just doesn't look like a Daniel,"

"Well what does he look like then?"

"I don't know!" I cry. I'm starting a cold sweat when he doesn't take his bottle, "Look, Dean, can we maybe talk about naming him when he's _not_ crying,"

Dean held up his hands in surrender and dropped the now empty can into the bin, "Do you want me to take him for a bit?"

"No I'm alright,"

He throws himself down onto his bed and lies in perfect Dean-style: propped up on pillows, arms folded, legs crossed at the ankles. He watches me as I circle the room with the baby in my arms.

"It just doesn't feel right that the kid doesn't have a name,"

"They don't have to be named instantly,"

"You were,"

I look up from the baby's tiny red face, "Really?"

"Yep. Mom and Dad had decided a couple of weeks before you were born. I remember. They had three names. If you were going to be a girl, they were going to call you Samantha. Go figure. So they decided that if you a boy, they might call you Samuel. Or Oliver,"

"Oliver? They were gonna name me Oliver?"

"That's right. And I put my foot down,"

"_You_? Why?"

Dean looked very uncomfortable suddenly, "It's nothing. I just…well I didn't like the name,"

I pin him with a stare, "And?"

He relents after a few minutes of pressure, and then it all comes out in one slightly bitter rush, "At school, we'd just been doing about Oliver Twist, alright? And I didn't like it because the kid was an orphan. And I didn't want to name my new little baby brother after a famous orphan. Because…because it scared me that it might come true for you,"

Damn.

I look down at the baby, then slowly look back up at Dean. He doesn't look me in the eye; he's tracing the pattern on the bedspread with his eyes.

"Dean, I…I didn't know that,"

"Well Dad and I never said. We didn't really feel like we had to. I mean I was only four,"

"Yeah but…you stamped out a whole name for me just because you didn't want that for me?

"Yeah well it didn't work, did it? We lost Mom. And then we lost Dad. So, you know what, you pick a name for the baby. 'Cos the way I do it is obviously screwed,"

"No, Dean…it's not. Alright, I _want_ you to help me choose. I'm not going to be able to otherwise,"

I start to think maybe he'll silently brood all night. That under all those cocky jokes he'll be harbouring some bad memories. But when he looks up he's got a glint in his eye, "How about Joel?"

"No,"

"Really?"

"Nah I don't like it. Besides, one of my roommates at Stanford was called Joel, and he smelt of Pretzels,"

We went on like this for a while. And, almost as if comforted that he'll soon have a more official place in the world, my little boy drifted off. I lay him down in the makeshift crib we had going, and stroke his head softly as he dreams. His hair's so fine, the colour of dark sand. Dean starts getting ready to go to bed; but once again I'm reluctant to leave his side.

"He doesn't sleep very well," I say, slightly put out, when Dean notices that I'm once again refusing to leave him alone, "And I want him to know I'm here,"

"Sam..." he starts, and I wonder if I'm going to get a lecture, but instead he crouches down next to me, "Sam, watch,"

He puts his hand inside the rickety crib and takes my wrist, guiding my fingers to my son's. He pushes me and I end up resting one of o my fingers into his palm. The little boy's fingers curl as a reflex, holding onto my finger with a loose but steady grip.

I can't help but grin like an idiot.

"See. He knows your there. He knows you're not gonna leave him,"

In the end I fall asleep against the crib, my finger in my son's hand. I wake up blearily half way into morning, and notice Dean's put a blanket over me. My arm's gone numb but I don't care, I watch the little boy happily until I'm back to sleep again. He sleeps well for the first night in his short life, and I was incredibly grateful.

My son, my baby boy. There was the drama of discovering he existed, the drama of him being born, the drama of him being officially dumped on me, the fright of realisation. And now I – and Dean – had got over that, all we had left to do was name the kid.


End file.
